Luck of the Irish
by cheride
Summary: One more visit into the weekend after Clarence.


**_Luck of the Irish_**- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: K+

* * *

_

From the forum story starter, this one's kind of an epilogue to one already posted epilogue and a prologue to another, so thanks to L.M. Lewis and Owlcroft for letting me borrow their ideas. And it's mostly for CAnn, who wanted a St. Patrick's story. Oh, and many thanks to Owl for beta work, and for keeping count of my kids.

* * *

_A best friend is like a four leaf clover—hard to find and lucky to have._

It was an unusual thing, McCormick thought, sleeping in at Gulls Way. Even more unusual when Hardcastle slept even later. Not that they didn't both have a pretty good excuse, what with the almost non-stop drive back from Clarence just yesterday, and then the party last night. And, besides, he figured the judge was just trying to sleep away some of the bad stuff from the last week. He took a moment to wish that it was that easy. Of course, he thought maybe he was warding off his own demons with excessive domesticity, even though he was going to pass it off as trying to keep the judge distracted. Then he turned his attention back to the bacon sizzling in the pan.

Satisfied that the strips were cooking adequately, but not too quickly, McCormick crossed to the kitchen table and the stack of mail he'd carried in from the den. He methodically began sorting through the envelopes, creating three distinct piles: his, Hardcastle's, and—always the largest—the junk. He was making quick work of it when he suddenly faltered as he found himself staring at an official letter from the California Department of Pardons and Parole. He stared at the envelope for a moment, then hastily flipped through the remaining unsorted pile to determine if Hardcastle had received one too. But, no, the judge had not been contacted, so whatever it was, it must not be too bad.

_Who says it's anything bad at all?_ he chided himself.

Maybe not, but whatever it was, after the last week, he thought maybe he could live without any surprises. And though that thought gave him a brief twinge of guilt after last night, he thought an unexpected party was nothing compared to unexpected communication from the parole board. He found himself filled with an unreasonable desire to simply ignore it, so he finished sorting the rest of the mail, tossed the junk into the trash, and went to turn the bacon. Once again content with its progress, he pulled the oven door open slightly to check on a pan of scones, then padded to the fridge and pulled out the eggs and milk. He cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisked in the milk, grinned as he added a couple of drops of food coloring, and set the bowl aside.

Then he sighed, knowing he couldn't ignore it, as much as he might want to.

He made one last check of the bacon, covered the skillet before pushing it off the hot burner, then went back to the table and plopped into a seat. He paused as he picked up the envelope, remembering the trick his mom had taught him so many years ago.

_What's the worst that could happen?_ he thought.

The idea was that if you knew the very worst thing possible, and then came up with a solution for _that_, whatever actually happened was sure to seem much more bearable. But as he sat there thinking, it occurred to him that he'd already lived through the worst thing that could happen, or at least he'd _thought_ he had. It had been that night in the cabin in Arkansas with Christy Miller. He really had believed Hardcastle was dead, and he'd come up with a plan to live through that. Not that Hardcastle dying was a possible result of whatever was in the letter, so that didn't technically fit in with the rules of the 'what's the worst that could happen?' game. He took a breath and admitted his fear.

_Prison_.

There'd certainly been a time when that would've been the worst idea he could've conjured up, regardless of the circumstances. But sitting in that cabin, in the middle of nowhere, he'd been prepared to go back inside in order to avenge Hardcastle's death, so sometime in the last six months his priorities had apparently shifted. He gave a passing thought to just how the hell something like that happened, decided he didn't have an answer for _that_, and went back to staring at the letter. But he couldn't move past the idea that nothing inside this envelope was going to make him feel any emptier than he'd felt just a few days earlier, and suddenly he had his answer.

_The worst that could happen is they've revoked my parole. If that happens, I'll do my time, Hardcase'll probably even visit every once in a while, then I'll get out and start over. The judge would help me if I needed it. I'd survive. _

He wasn't entirely sure why he was so confident that Hardcastle would stand by him, but he realized he had rarely been so sure of anything.

_It's because I haven't done anything wrong_, he rationalized as he tore open the envelope. _At least, not lately. _

And that's what he kept telling himself as he read over the details of the letter, and saw that it was a request for a meeting with his official parole officer, John Dalem. He even continued his self-assurance as he re-read the date, ran a calendar through his head, and realized that his appointment had been yesterday afternoon. He groaned, wishing he'd taken the time to go through the mail when they'd arrived home yesterday. But there really hadn't been time, not with the shopping and the cooking and getting everything ready for the party. And the judge had needed that party. He needed to be reminded that there were still good and decent people around that he could depend on so he wouldn't spend so much time thinking about childhood friends who betrayed him. He could only hope John Dalem would see it that way.

He stuffed the letter back inside the envelope, then folded it and shoved it into his pocket, and moved over to the phone. He dialed the number he had committed to memory months earlier, not expecting it to be answered on a Saturday morning, but thinking maybe he'd get lucky just once. But after several rings, a machine picked up, so he explained briefly that they'd been out of town, apologized profusely for missing the appointment, and ended with a rather fatalistic assurance that he'd be at the estate 'in case anyone needs to find me'.

He stood for a moment, one hand still on the phone he had just returned to the cradle, the other cradling his forehead as he thought through the repercussions of ignoring a summons from your parole officer. He wasn't sure there were too many excuses good enough to cover that offense, especially with someone like Dalem. In fact, all things considered, he was a little surprised a squad car hadn't arrived and hauled him away in the middle of last night's festivities. Maybe he did get lucky every once in a while after all. As the oven buzzer went off, he just hoped his luck would hold through breakfast.

He pulled the pan from the oven and set it aside, then wandered out into the hallway to shout up the stairs. "Hey! Breakfast is almost ready; are you plannin' on sleeping all day?" He grinned slightly. It had taken six months before he'd gotten the chance to say that to the old donkey, and he seriously doubted he was going to get too many more opportunities in the future.

As he turned back toward the kitchen, he tried not to think that he might be out of chances to say much of anything to the guy.

00000

There had been some clanking around going on downstairs for a while. He'd heard it but ignored it, not really giving any thought to the idea that it was broad daylight outside. But now the shout aimed in his direction couldn't easily be ignored so he forced his eyes open and rolled over to look at the clock. After _ten_? He was surprised McCormick hadn't already come upstairs to make sure he wasn't dead. Of course, the kid probably thought he was up here sleeping in some kind of depressed stupor, just trying to forget recent events.

_Aren't you?_ he challenged himself.

Well, no, not exactly. The truth was he'd lain awake for several hours last night mulling over everything that had happened in his hometown, wondering how he could have been so completely blindsided by people he would've sworn he'd known down to their souls. Dawn had been creeping over the horizon by the time he'd finally drifted off to sleep, but at least then he'd gotten a few hours reprieve from thinking. But the reprieve was over now, so he pushed himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.

It didn't take him long to put on a false front, and he strode into the kitchen with a hearty greeting. "Smells good in here."

McCormick turned from the stove with a welcoming smile, then raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Parrots today, huh?" he asked, with a pointed look at the judge's shirt.

"It's St. Patrick's Day," Hardcastle answered reasonably.

"I don't think they have parrots in Ireland," McCormick pointed out with a grin as he turned back to his skillet.

"Yeah, but it has lots of green in it."

"And red, and yellow," McCormick muttered as he scooped eggs onto plates, "and some blue, and—"

"Yeah, yeah," Hardcastle interrupted. "Too bad." He poured a cup of coffee. "At least it's got more personality than that boring old green t-shirt of yours," he continued, seating himself at the table.

"I don't need my clothes to have personality, Judge," McCormick answered as he set the plates down, "my _actual_ personality doesn't scare people off, unlike some people I could name."

"What the hell is this?" Hardcastle barked, suddenly losing interest in the clothing debate.

"See what I mean?" Mark asked. He crossed back to the cabinet to get forks and napkins.

"I'm serious, McCormick; what _is_ this?"

"Scrambled eggs and bacon," the young man answered in exasperation. "What's it look like?"

"It looks green," Hardcastle said, poking at it with his fork.

"It's St. Patrick's Day," McCormick reminded him.

"So we gotta eat something that looks like it came from a Dr. Seuss book?"

"Dr. Seuss had ham, not bacon. And I'm pretty sure his eggs weren't scrambled." Mark put another plate on the table. "And I know he never had scones."

Hardcastle stopped picking at the eggs long enough to look up at McCormick. "Scones?" He grabbed one off the plate, examined it briefly, then took a bite, nodding appreciatively. "Where'd you learn how to make scones?"

"Found a recipe in one of the books Sarah left behind, when I was looking up the corned beef and cabbage. There was a whole chapter on Irish food, but a lot of it didn't look all that appealing." He was pouring two glasses of orange juice. "I suppose you don't want any food coloring in your juice, then?" he asked.

"Let's not get carried away with the theme, kiddo," the judge grumbled.

McCormick carried the juice back to the table, then sat down at his own seat, only to immediately jump to his feet again. "Forgot the butter and jelly," he said, hurrying back to the refrigerator.

"It's not some weirdo green pepper jelly, or something?" Hardcastle asked fearfully.

"Just grape," Mark grinned, setting the items on the table and reclaiming his seat.

"Okay, then, let's eat." But though he spoke enthusiastically, Hardcastle started with the bacon.

"It really doesn't change the flavor," McCormick said around a mouthful of eggs. "It's just for looks."

"You know how you can _know_ something," the older man said as he stabbed a small clump of eggs, "but still not entirely _believe_ it?"

"You mean like how I know I'm gonna be here playing Tonto indefinitely, but I still can't entirely believe it?"

Hardcastle pointed the fork in the other man's direction. "Exactly," he said sternly, but then he had to quickly stick the fork in his mouth to hide the grin.

And then the meal became punctuated with the kind of non-stop chatter that only Mark McCormick could master. Everything from the upcoming baseball season, ("I think it's time for the American League to go all the way. Not that I'd have a line on it, or anything."), to a goofy awards show that he'd seen advertised just that morning, ("That guy with the talking car is apparently all the rage.") to several little-known facts about the current day's celebrity. ("No, he did _not_ run out all the snakes. There's time for a lot of reading in prison, ya know.")

It was only as McCormick was bustling around putting the dirty dishes into the machine and still running his mouth a mile a minute that Hardcastle realized it didn't seem quite right. Sure, he'd accepted that the kid was just trying to distract him and keep him from thinking about Clarence, but that didn't seem to be the only thing that was off kilter. Somehow, the entire lighthearted bit just suddenly seemed a bit _forced_.

"Hey, is everything okay?"

McCormick's hands froze for just a second under the running water, then immediately went back to rinsing the pan he was holding and sticking it in the machine. "Sure, why wouldn't it be?"

The tone was natural and relaxed, no hint of concern, so the brief hesitation that he'd witnessed was Hardcastle's only indication that the quick reassurance was completely untrue. "Are you still wanting to go out to a pub tonight?" Personally, Hardcastle couldn't think of much he'd rather do less, but it was a way to steer the conversation.

"Ah . . ." Mark dropped the last fork into the basket then closed the dishwasher. "Yeah," he said slowly, "I thought it might be kinda fun. You know, with the holiday and all. But I guess if you'd rather not . . ." He still hadn't turned back to face the judge.

"What's going on, McCormick?" His own tone had lost the air of casualness. He didn't like it when the kid kept things from him, and he found that he liked it even less now.

"It's just that I might have other plans after all," McCormick said slowly, as he turned and leaned against the sink. He looked back at the table. "It's a little up in the air right now."

"You mean like a date?" The older man was confused. Much as he didn't particularly want to go out and be among a bunch of drunken, green-clad revelers tonight, he had sort of been looking forward to spending the evening with McCormick. And he had been certain the young man had been on a mission to cheer him up, even if he wasn't making it too easy for him. Had he really gotten that bad at reading people?

"Not exactly a date, Judge," McCormick was stammering. "And if I'm still here, we can go out. Or watch a movie, or something. Maybe that one with John Wayne in Ireland will be on."

"_The Quiet Man_," Hardcastle supplied automatically.

"Yeah, that one. It's kinda different, but it's okay. We could order pizza or something, if you don't want to go out. And we can make our own green beer, though it's better on tap. I know lots of toasts and stuff. We shoulda had one with our juice even. Here's one for ya: 'May your troubles be as few and far between as my grandmother's teeth.' Pretty good, huh? Though who wants to be thinking of that picture when you're out hoping to maybe find a pretty girl to dance with?"

Mark was grinning again by now, clearly back on track, and it took a moment before Hardcastle realized he was being led astray. "Where else would you be then, if it's not a date?"

"What?"

"You said we could go out if you were still here. If you don't have a date, what other kind of plans _might_ you have? Where else would you be?" He locked his eyes onto the other man. "And trust me, McCormick, this would be a really bad time to start lying to me; I've had enough of that lately." He knew that was decidedly unfair, but he really _had_ had enough.

"Ah, hell." McCormick pulled something from his pocket, then crossed over to the table and dropped into the chair across from Hardcastle. "I wouldn't lie to you, Judge," he said sincerely, "it's just that I might have a little problem." He pushed the envelope across the tabletop toward the other man.

Hardcastle glanced at the return address, then pulled out the single page. He was reading quietly, but McCormick was already talking again.

"I didn't want to bother you with it," he was saying quickly. "I'm sorry I didn't look at the mail yesterday, then everything would've been fine, but I was kinda busy. I did try to call him this morning, but it's Saturday and all, so I knew he wouldn't be in."

"McCormick."

"I left him a message and tried to explain, but—"

"_McCormick_." This time, Hardcastle spoke with slightly more insistence, but the younger man was pretty worked up.

"But it's Dalem, you know, and you know how he is. I mean, hell, he called _you_ when I was ten minutes late. Now I've stood him up completely; he's gonna have my ass back in jail before the weekend's over, no doubt about it. There's just not—"

"_McCormick_!" Hardcastle fairly shouted to get the other's attention. "Pipe down a minute." He took a breath and waved the letter. "Why wouldn't you tell me about this?"

"I told you," McCormick said quietly, apparently having gotten the point, "I didn't want to bother you. You've had a lot on your mind. I thought maybe I could work it out."

"Stuff like this isn't a 'bother', kid," the jurist replied, shaking his head, "it's just bureaucracy." Then he thought for a moment. "Well, maybe that _is_ a little bit of a bother, but it's sure not your fault. And, anyway, what if you couldn't work it out?"

Mark swallowed. "Well, like I said, I thought it was possible I might be somewhere else tonight."

Hardcastle shook his head again. "And you call _me_ stubborn. You shoulda just told me."

"And said what? Asked you to pull a few strings? Call in a few favors? Jeez, Hardcase, we just left a place where people doing things behind closed doors and playing by their own rules got a couple of people killed, and you were almost one of 'em."

"This is hardly the same thing," Hardcastle answered in exasperation.

"No, it isn't," McCormick agreed, "but I wasn't sure you were in the best frame of mind to recognize the distinction. And I didn't want to be one more person asking you to bend your principles. Not now. Hell, not ever."

The judge leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I appreciate that, kiddo, I really do. But you know what? I think you've got shamrocks in your head. It would've been my fault you missed your appointment, not yours, so why shouldn't I fix it if it needed fixing?"

"Well . . ."

"Yeah. Didn't think about it like that, did ya? Don't be keeping stuff from me, kid, it's just not worth it. And besides, I've got some news for you that might've saved you some worry, if you woulda just talked to me."

McCormick let his expression ask the question.

"I talked to Dalem before we left Clarence."

"You _did_?"

"'Course I did. Come on, McCormick, you were arrested by legally sworn officers of the law, even if they were crooks. And then you broke out of jail and they had a manhunt after you. You can't have that kind of stuff on your record unexplained; Dalem woulda sent somebody all the way to Arkansas to drag you back here in chains."

McCormick smiled ruefully. "Never really thought about that. So you took care of it, huh?"

"Sure. And he told me he was arranging a regular annual meeting with you; no big thing, just routine, but he said it really needed to take place, even with our arrangement. I told him we wouldn't be back for a while, so he said he'd reschedule it."

"So I've been worried for nothing?" Mark grinned.

"Looks that way. But maybe you've learned your lesson."

"Yeah, maybe I have." He paused for a second. "Or maybe it's just my version of an Irish blessing."

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Which one is that?"

"May the leprechauns be near you to spread luck along your way."

"You saying I'm a leprechaun?" Hardcastle asked dangerously.

McCormick shook his head quickly. "Nope. But maybe _my_ leprechauns ride a donkey."


End file.
